


Like A New Aquaintance

by TheUnassumingDoctor



Series: Like An Old Friend [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, F/M, Ficlet, Happy Ending, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, I killed the violin, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Sad, What happens after AU, You should probably read that one first, sequel to Like An Old Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3977251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUnassumingDoctor/pseuds/TheUnassumingDoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Like An Old Friend</p><p>John and Lestrade rush to Baker street after Sherlock leaves the wedding</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like A New Aquaintance

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a direct continuation of [Like An Old Friend](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3687882). For this story to make any sense you need to read that one first. As always I love feedback!

Greg Lestrade was having a blast. The music was great, the food was good. Sherlock even played his violin for everyone. It was definitely a wedding to remember. Greg had watched the three of them, John, Mary, and Sherlock, talking in a huddle in the middle of the dance. He just assumed it was congratulations of sorts. As John pulled Mary into a dance, Greg was pulling into Mrs. Hudson’s arms as they began the waltz. Caught up in the music and lights Greg turned his attention toward the lady in his arms. He didn’t catch the look that shaded Sherlock’s face, nor did he watch the long coat slip between the doors and out into the cold night’s air. 

After a few dances the weary Inspector took a break from the excitement and wandered over to the punch table. It seemed like he wasn’t the only one who needed a break, because soon after Newly Wed John Watson appeared and downed a cup of refreshments. 

“Congrats John! Married life suits you.”

“Thanks Greg. Have you seen Sherlock lately? I can’t seem to find him.”

“No I haven’t actually. Maybe with Mrs. Hudson or Molly?”

“No I just checked there. It’s probably nothing. He is probably just hiding from the people.” 

John tried to shrug it off, but Greg could see he was concerned. He didn’t have to worry though, because Mary ran up and grabbed his hand dragging him off for another dance. John smiled at her and let himself be swept away into the crowd. 

Greg finished him punch and was about to follow suit when his phone rang. “Can’t I get a break from work for just one night?” He mumbled to himself pulling the device from his pocket. Unlocking the screen, he was met with a text. 

Go to Sherlock. - M. Holmes

Greg was about to ask what Mycroft wanted when the text alert sounded again.

Baker Street. Now. –M. Holmes

Greg’s face paled as he realized Mycroft’s implication. Turning, he grabbed his coat and ran out the door. “Please not a danger night. Please Sherlock, not tonight. Don’t do this to John” He breathed.

Greg ran to his car and was about to pull open the door when a quick hand reached out and pushed it back shut. John Watson stood straight-backed and hard faced. He looked every part of the rough and ready soldier, but the fear in his eyes was unmaskable. 

“What happened? Where is Sherlock?” John demanded.

“I don’t know! Honest, John. I just got a text telling me to get to Baker Street.”

John didn’t reply he just climbed into the car. Greg followed him in quickly and together they sped away from the wedding reception and toward Baker Street. The ride was silent aside from the screaming siren. The sound set heavy in John’s stomach. IT was a sound for emergency, for danger, for… for… John couldn’t think about what awaited him when he walked through the door of 221b. 

“John I think you should let me go in first.” Greg said as he pulled up to the door. However, his words were lost to the air, for John was already out of the car and pushing open the door to 221. Greg climbed out and started after him.

John froze outside of the door to the flat. He could hear Greg bounding up the stairs after him, but he took no notice of him. This used to be theirs. He couldn’t count how many times he pushed this door open and was greeted by a pajama clad detective. Violin pressed beneath his chin, bow stretched across the strings pulled by a long pale arm. Or him lounging on the sofa with a “bored” upon his lips. What would he find this time? What would he see when he opened the door?

“John.” Greg said quietly. “Let me do this. Go back down stairs.”

John was stubborn. It was a fact. Just like the tide will come in and the birds will sing. He was going to do this. He would open that door. And he did. The lock clicked and the door swung open.

John’s breath caught in his throat. The room was in chaos. His chair had been thrown across the room and into a stack of books and case files. Papers littered the floors spread out like snow. It was not the soft, fluffy snow, it was the hard, slick like ice, snow. Staring up from this snow was the faces of the dead. Case files bursting as if to say “He will be next. Lying on the ground. Cold and still.” 

Tearing his eyes away from the papers, John’s eye caught on a small piece of wood peeking from under the upturned chair. It was the violin. Cracked. John grabbed the chair and flung it away. The body was crushed and the neck of the violin was snapped. The bow was only held together by the strings joining them. It had been sitting in the chair. Sherlock had probably thrown it there when he first came home. It was his treasure. It was his heart. Now it’s in crumbles on the ground. Broken beyond repair. 

John jumped up. His eyes darting throughout the room. Looking for the man for whom they had come for. Not on the couch. Not on the floor. Not in the chairs. John spun towards the kitchen. His eyes passing over nothing resembling the detective. So he continued. Dashing through the kitchen, he threw the door to the bathroom open and pulled back the shower curtain. Nothing. Back out again he pushed through Sherlock’s bedroom door. Nothing.

John was grabbed and jerked around to face the grim Inspector. “John calm down. You need to breathe. You know him best, now think like him.”

John released the breath he had been harboring and looked around the room. Greg was right. He needed to calm down. He was no use in a panic. Controlling his breathing, John studied the room. Everything was in order. Sherlock kept his room clean. John went to his dresser. His clothes were put away in their drawers. The sock index still in order. John crossed to his closet. Pulling the door open John took inventory of Sherlock’s suits. They were hung up nice and straight. The shoes in a pile underneath. 

John turned back to the room. There was compressions on the bed cover from where he had sat, but there was another, smaller one beside it. John ran his fingers over the ripples and glanced up and down the bed. His eyes caught the pillow. It was on the side Sherlock always slept on, the side of the bed with the rumpled markings. The pillow was lacking its common indent. There was no marking from where he had laid his head. John grabbed the pillow and immediately threw it aside. There, resting under the pillow was a box. 

John brought the box onto his lap and ran a hand over the lid. His fingers trembling across the smooth wooden surface. Carefully he pulled back the top opening the case. It creaked. It was a satisfying creak. A sound that comes from rarely being opened. It was the sound of a long forgotten box. One that could easily be forgotten again. It was empty inside, but it was clear what it used to enclose.

“He’s taken it.”

Greg sighed. “We need to find him.”

“His room is clean. The living room was destroyed.”

“Yes….?” 

“My chair. Not his. Me. Mine.” John jumped off the bed and ran from the room. Running out the door he took the stairs two at a time with Greg right behind him. He burst into his old room and froze at the sight. Curled up in his bed was Sherlock Holmes. He was laying on his side with his long legs pulled close. Arms wrapped tight around them. The pillow holding his head was damp with the tears that fell. The paths of these tears were etched along his cheeks and off his chin. The discarded syringe lay stark against the faded sheets. Empty. 

The sight of the syringe sent John into doctor mode. He ran to Sherlock’s side and rolled him on to his back. The steady hands reached for a wrists, trying to fight back the memories of the last time he tried to take his pulse. The pulse was slow but still present. Bending down John checked to see if he was still breathing. It was shallow. Barely a whisper of breath. Pulling up his eyelids John noted the dilated pupils. 

“Call an ambulance now! Tell them Overdose and his respiratory system is failing. Hurry Greg, his heart rate is too low!” 

Greg followed the orders without hesitation. Giving them all the information they needed and the location. As soon as he hung up with them, he called Mycroft on John’s demand. John started chest compressions trying to shock Sherlock’s heart. 

“Come on, come on! Sherlock don’t do this to me. Not again. I can’t do it again Sherlock.” 

Rushing in, the paramedics took over and strapped Sherlock to the stretcher and carried him to the ambulance waiting. John, barking orders the whole way, followed them. If there was any objections, it fell on deaf ears, for John was going with him no matter what they said. 

Lestrade, who was still on the phone with Mycroft, followed behind in his car.

They arrived at the hospital and were immediately pulled into the flurry of action. John was grabbed and pulled away from Sherlock. They ignored his cries of “I’m a doctor!” and “I’m his partner!” “Let me in, let me through!” It took four nurses to force him into the waiting room and three more to make him stay in the chair. When Greg arrived with a quick “I’ll watch him” the nurses scattered grateful to be away from him. 

In the end it was Sarah who delivered the news. She was the only one willing to face the doctor. 

“His heart stopped three times and he quite breathing twice. We have him stabilized now but he is still under the effects of the drugs. He will be hazy and unsure of his surroundings. Room 302. You can go and visit him but don’t stay too long Ok? He needs to rest.” She turned to walk away before pausing and turning back “John, he took enough to kill three grown men. You are lucky you found him when you did.” With that she left.

Like a man on his way to his execution,John walked out of the waiting room and down the hall to 302. He paused outside the door taking a deep breath, before stepping inside. Greg hung back by the door not willing to intrude. 

The body that lay in the bed was gaunt. His skin was milky and hanging off his bones. Sherlock had stopped eating while John was away, whether there was a case on or not. The blackened eyes told of the sleepless nights and early mornings. 

“Hey Sherlock? Are you alright? Can you hear me?”

“John?” came the weak reply.

“Yeah, it’s me. Are you ok?”

“You’re not real. You’re not here. John wouldn’t come. He has Mary now and a baby. He doesn’t need me anymore.”

“What? Sherlock no that’s not true.” John was shocked. How could Sherlock think that? All the times he patched him up. All the dates he ran out of just because Sherlock had sent a vague text.

“Yes it is. He is better without me. I just hurt him. That’s okay though because now he doesn’t have to deal with me anymore. I’m dead.” The voice was resigned. Accepting. 

“No Sherlock you’re alive! I’m not better without you! I get bored and restless.”

“John has Mary now, and a baby. I won’t drag him down anymore. He is free of me. He can leave.”

“I’m not leaving Sherlock!” John cried out.

“Everyone leaves. They use me and then leave. It’s okay, I’m used to it.”

John put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “Damn it, look at me Sherlock! Open your eyes and look at me.” Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, blinking at the harsh hospital lights. They were glazed and unfocused. “Right here Sherlock look at me.” He waited for the blue eyes to sharpen and then smiled as they studied his face. 

“John? Are you real? Am I hallucinating too?”

“I’m real Sherlock. I’m not going to leave you.”

“Yes you are.” Sherlock tried to keep his eyes open, but they sunk back shut. “You have a family.”

“Why did you do it?” he asked quietly.

“So you can be free of me.” he said. Soon after his body took over and he fell back asleep.

John stumbled back from the bed. “How could he think that? How could he think I would just use him and throw him away like trash? I have done everything for him. I waited two years for him. I-I love him. How could he think I would ever be able to walk away?”

“Because you married the woman who shot him in the chest.” Mycroft interrupted. 

“He told me to marry her. He was the one who pushed me to fix things with her. He said he liked her! He helped with the wedding!”

“Sentiment, dear Watson.”

“He wanted you to be happy. He thought you would be happiest with her.” Added Greg.

“Well he is an idiot. I am happiest with him.”

“And your wife of,” Mycroft checks his watch, “four hours?” 

“I’ll figure it out later. I’m staying here with Sherlock”

“And the baby?”

“It’s not mine. She can run off with its dad for all I care.”

“And what are you going to do if Sherlock wakes up and never wants to see you again?”

“I’ll...” John stopped. The months away from him were hard. Even with Mary, he was getting bored. He would snap at her for no reason. He needed excitement in his life and Sherlock was the only one who could provide it. A quiet life would never have suited him. “I don’t know what I would do. I can’t go back to Mary. I can’t live this boring life she wants me to have.”

“Could be dangerous.” Came a croak from the bed.

John looked up at Sherlock “Yet, here I am.”


End file.
